


No Sense At All

by thenewgothicromance



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gun Kink, Legal Drama, Liberal use of the word fuck, M/M, Post-Canon, and not that serious i promise, and uh, but that's later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25920982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenewgothicromance/pseuds/thenewgothicromance
Summary: Freddy’s been on medical leave for two weeks, and out of the hospital for one, when he goes to visit Larry in jail. It’s hard to say exactly why he does it. Almost bleeding the fuck to death in someone’s fucking arms? It’s just an emotionally raw fucking situation, okay? And maybe he owes Larry a favor.
Relationships: Mr. Orange & Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs), Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Stuck in the Middle with You," of course.

Freddy’s been on medical leave for two weeks, and out of the hospital for one, when he goes to visit Larry in jail. It’s hard to say exactly why he does it. When Holdaway asks him later he says, “I don’t know, fucking closure, man.”

Holdaway shakes his head, but he couldn’t possibly understand. Almost bleeding the fuck to death in someone’s fucking arms? It’s just an emotionally raw fucking situation, okay?

Freddy’s not sure, when he enters the visitor’s line and tells them which inmate he’s there to see, that Larry will even agree to see him. Or if he does, that he won’t just shout and tell Freddy to go fuck himself until the guards pull him back out again. 

But maybe Freddy should know better than that. 

When he walks into the visitation room--a dim, concrete hallway lined with wired windows and two-way phones over a scratched plastic counter, furnished with the kind of navy blue chairs you’d see in a high school--Larry is sitting at the far end, leaning back in his chair on the other side of the window, arms crossed, cool as ever.

“Larry,” Freddy says, in a very neutral tone, wetting his lips nervously as he puts the plastic phone to his ear. 

“Mr. Orange,” Larry replies, with the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, and he says it very crisp, very serious, his voice gravelly through the line, but it sounds so absurd, _Mr. Orange_ , that Freddy barks out a laugh.

He almost introduces himself as Tommy, on instinct, because that’s what he’d always been prepared to say if Larry pressed him. But at the last second, he says, “Freddy. My name’s Freddy,” instead. 

Larry gives him a long look.

“I know.” He says. “They kept saying your name after you passed out.”

Whether it was the shock of the gun firing by his ear, the gallons of blood he must have lost, or the sheer expectation of being dead, Freddy had passed out just after Larry fired his pistol, just grazing his cheek, and ducked behind him to avoid the returning fire. 

“I didn’t think you were gonna make it,” Larry says, also very neutral, very fucking cool, and Freddy shrugs.

“Yeah, I’m a cockroach,” he says, glancing down the row of inmates and visitors, some of them talking casually, and others getting all teary, trying to touch each other’s hands through the glass. 

“So what, you come to tie a ribbon around the oak tree, or you have something to tell me?” Larry says, pulling Freddy’s eyes back to him.

Nobody looks good in a jumpsuit, but the LA county jail’s suits are dark blue, so it could be worse. Larry’s got his unbuttoned to the waist, over a stiff white t-shirt.

“Ha ha,” Freddy deadpans, and shrugs again. “Why did you--” he starts, but there’s too many fucking ways to finish that sentence to choose one. 

_Why did you look out for me?_

_Why did you kill your own friends for me?_

_Why did you take me for tacos and comb my hair when I was dying and cry when I told you the truth?_

_Why didn’t you kill me?”_

Freddy doesn’t choose any of them. Instead he says, “You saved my life, man. I don’t know what to say.”

Larry leans forward in his chair, and he’s got a glint in his eye that spells trouble.

“Then say this,” he says. “Say, ‘Larry, I owe you such a big fucking favor, what could I possibly do to repay you?’”

Freddy laughs for real, not just because his nerves are about to make him burst out of his skin if he doesn’t let off a little steam. Even if Larry did save his life, Freddy doesn’t know that he owes him fucking anything, Freddy has given him exactly what a cop is supposed to give a robber, exactly what a good guy is supposed to give a bad guy. But as soon as he thinks, “bad guy,” he feels a little sorry for it, thinking about Larry telling Joe, _“You’ve got it wrong, he’s a good kid.”_

Maybe lying is okay if it’s for the greater good, but he still feels a little bad about it. Besides, if Larry asks him for something ridiculous, or too much, he can always say no. Larry’s in jail, what the fuck can he do about it.

“Okay Larry, I owe you such a big fucking favor. What can I do for you?”

Larry sits back again, and nods.

“I’ve done time for all my crimes,” he says, and then amends, “All the crimes anybody can prove anything on. All they’ve got me on now is this.” 

He pauses for a moment, presumably to let that sink, but Freddy is less than fucking impressed.

“Seems like this is enough,” he says. _This_ , means two counts of murder, one count of attempting to murder a law enforcement officer, and armed robbery with discharge of a deadly weapon. 

“Come on Freddy,” Larry says, and it sounds weird to hear his name in Larry’s mouth. He almost wants to tell him to go back to Mr. Orange. “You were with me every step of the way. I didn’t kill nobody except two career criminals, to save your lily ass by the way. Hell, you shot that woman in the car, not me.”

Freddy’s knuckles go white around the phone at that, and Larry takes his own phone in one hand, holding the other up in defense.

“I’m just saying.”

“What _are_ you saying?”

“I’m saying, that if _you_ saved a cop’s life and took down two crooks, you’d be a celebrated hero. So I helped steal a few diamonds, that’s on me, but the murder charges...come on.”

“You held a gun to my fucking head, Larry. You shot me in the fucking face.” That’s a bit of an exaggeration, and Larry looks nonplussed. “I used to be a good looking guy, man.” 

“Must’ve been before I knew you.”

Freddy sighs, and rubs his chin to keep himself from touching the scar across his right cheekbone, underscoring his eye like war paint.

“Okay, let’s say I’m with you,” he says, and Larry cracks a smile. Such an annoying as fuck, self-satisfied, smug-ass smile that Freddy almost regrets having said it, knowing that there’s no “let’s say” about it. “What do you want me to do? I’m not a fucking judge.”

“No,” Larry says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “But you could testify for me.”

That was what Freddy was afraid he’d say. 

“Come on man, I--”

“Just tell them the truth,” Larry insists, “like the goddamn law says. Tell them I helped you out, and didn’t want anyone to get hurt unnecessarily.”

“Dude, they’re gonna say I’ve gone native, they’re gonna rip me to fuckin shreds. I could lose my fucking job.”

“So find another one. Besides, they fire you for killing that woman?”

Freddy grinds his teeth so loud, Larry can probably hear it through the phone.

“That remains to be seen.”

“Which means no. So they’re not gonna fire you for this.”

It takes all of Freddy’s willpower to keep from banging his head against the glass. He tries to think of another excuse, but draws a blank. Larry’s right--if Freddy’s supposed uphold the goddamn law, doesn’t that mean making sure the guys who decide not to kill cops and civilians alike, indiscriminately, get it a little less bad than the guys who do?

“Fine,” he says, and Larry smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I've got you invested I'm going to make you read court-transcript format. This is my design.
> 
> OH also I totally forgot that Larry killed those two cops after they crashed the car until I was halfway through with this chapter so......you can decide if the events here really are changed, or if perhaps Freddy’s memory isn’t so accurate after all......
> 
> Also I had to pick a last name for Mr. Brown so it’s booth.

FREDERICK A. NEWANDYKE, called as a witness herein, having been duly sworn prior to recess, continued to be examined and testified as follows:

CROSS EXAMINATION BY ATTORNEY MANNIX

Q: Good afternoon, Officer.

A: Good afternoon, sir. 

Q: Now, Officer, I know the defense just had you talk through the events of August 9th, the date in question, before lunch, and I don’t want to waste your time, so I’m just going to ask you about a few specifics again, alright?

A: Sure.

Q: What happened after you, the defendant, and the late Mr. Booth left the scene of the crime. 

A: We left the scene in a getaway car, with uh. Mr. Booth driving. We heard sirens behind us, so Mr. Booth swerved the car in the alley behind 94th and 75th. We ran into a parked car, and couldn’t get the vehicle started again. A patrol car entered the alley from our left side, and we exited the vehicle. Mr. Booth shot at the patrol car, killing both officers inside, and got back in our vehicle, trying to get it to start again. Mr. Dimmick and I tried to convince him to get back out, as the car wasn’t moving, but he seemed to grow faint, and succumbed to his injuries.

Q: You’re saying that he died?

A: Yeah, he died.

Q: But you and Mr. Dimmick were not injured in the crash?

A: No. 

Q: And what did you and Mr. Dimmick do while Mr. Booth was shooting at the officers?

A: It happened so fast, we didn’t have time to do anything.

Q: I see. Officer, if Mr. Booth had sustained such serious head injuries as indicated by his death, how do you think he was able to aim so accurately at the officers?

A: I don’t know sir, I didn’t get a chance to ask him.

Q: I see. So what did you do next?

A: We left the alley on foot. 

Q: Yes, you left the alley on foot, and then in your report you said that Mr. Dimmick stopped a woman in a car, and threatened her with a gun to make her get out, in order to steal the car.

A: Yes sir.

Q: But that didn’t quite go as planned, did it?

A: No sir. 

Q: Tell us what happened when you, Officer, tried to get in the car. 

A: Um. the driver, of the car, she was armed. When I opened the driver side door, she shot me once in the abdomen. 

Q: Yes, she shot you in the stomach, and then you fired back at her, is that right?

A: Yes sir.

Q: Tell me, Officer, why did you fire at her?

A: She was aiming to shoot again, and I was afraid she was going to kill me.

Q: So you decided to kill her first?

ATTORNEY WARREN: Objection, Judge, leading question.

THE COURT: Objection sustained, redirect.

Q: When you fired at her, did you intend to kill her?

A: No sir. I was aiming for her arm, to stop her from firing again, but as I said, I was injured, and I missed.

Q: Officer Newandyke, have you ever missed a shot resulting in a fatality before?

A: No Sir. But I think that’s on account of me never having been shot in the stomach before either. 

Q: So you’re saying you were in pain, and it was affecting your functioning.

A: Yes.

Q: Okay, thank you Officer Newandyke. Next I’d like you to look at some photos, and describe to the court for me. Let’s look at Exhibit 13. Officer, what is that a picture of?

A: That’s a photo of myself and Mr. Dimmick in his car, outside the jewelry store where the heist was to happen, five or six days before. 

Q: And you know that two of your colleagues were following you for surveillance, right?

A: Yes.

Q: Okay. Let’s look at Exhibit 14. What’s this one?

A: That’s Mr. Dimmick and I entering my apartment in the evening, probably about a week before the 9th.

Q: Would you say that you and Mr. Dimmick became close, during the course of your work undercover?

A: Um. I’d say we were friendly, I guess. That was my job, to get in close with these guys. 

Q: And was it Mr. Dimmick you were closest with, out of the group? 

A: Yeah, I suppose so. 

Q: Did you seek him out, specifically, out of the group, to befriend?

A: It happened sort of naturally, I was just trying to act natural, and he was friendly to me. I could tell that he was close with Mr. Cabot, so if he wanted to be friends, it seemed smart to go along with it.

Q: So he took an interest in you?

A: Yeah, I guess so.

Q: Why do you think that was?

ATTORNEY WARREN: Objection, Judge, speculation.

THE COURT: Sustained. Mr. Mannix, redirect.

Q: Okay. Officer, I’d like you to identify one last photo for us. This is Exhibit 15, taken two months before you went undercover, as your department was testing their surveillance setup for the operation. Can you describe it for us?

A: What? This is...This is me and a friend, going into my apartment. 

Q: That older gentleman, in the picture with you, he’s your friend?

A: Yes.

Q: Could you tell us his name?

A: What? I...I don’t. I don’t know, he’s just some guy I knew.

ATTORNEY WARREN: Objection, Judge, this is irrelevant. Who Officer Newandyke spent time with weeks before the date in question is his business. 

ATTORNEY MANNIX: Your honor, it’s foundation.

THE COURT: Objection overruled, but make your point Mr. Mannix.

Q: So Officer Newandyke, you’re saying you don’t remember this gentleman’s name?

A: No, I don’t remember.

Q: And could you tell the court what the two of you are doing in this photo?

A: Okay, this is just sick. This is my business, what does this have to do with anything? 

Q: Officer, please

A: Come on, man, this doesn’t

THE COURT: Order. Mr. Mannix, redirect. Officer, compose yourself.

Q: I’d like the record to show that Exhibit 15 is a photo of Officer Newandyke outside his apartment with an older man who appears to have his hand down the back of Officer Newandyke’s trousers.

ATTORNEY WARREN: Objection, Judge, I don’t see how this could possibly be relevant to Mr. Dimmick’s case.

ATTORNEY MANNIX: Judge, I am only pointing out some susceptibilities that Officer Newandyke might have.

THE COURT: Objection overruled. Mr. Mannix, please don’t make me hurry you along again.

Q: Thank you judge. Officer Newandyke, I apologize if I’ve upset you, that was not my intent. I’ll finish up and let you go. Officer, earlier you said your poor aim was likely a result of impairment from your injury, is that correct? 

A: Yes sir. 

Q: And you’ve indicated that through mutual efforts, during the course of your investigation, you became closer with Mr. Dimmick than with any other member of the team.

A: Yes. 

Q: Do you think it’s possible, Mr. Newandyke, that between your injury and your biases towards Mr. Dimmick, that Mr. Dimmick could have manipulated your memory of the events on August 9th, to believe he was less responsible than his compatriots, for the crimes committed?

A: Could he ha-? No, I don’t think so. 

Q: You don’t think it is at all possible that any of these factors could be impairing your memory?

A: No, I mean. No. I don’t think they did. 

ATTORNEY MANNIX: That’s all I have, thank you.

THE COURT: Mr. Warren, any redirect?

ATTORNEY WARREN: Um. No, I. I don’t think so. Thank you Judge.

##

Throughout the disaster of his testimony, Freddy doesn’t dare so much as glance at Larry, watching from the table, next to his attorney. He does, though, when he gets off the stand, and although he expects Larry to be glaring daggers, or at the very least looking majorly unimpressed, he finds Larry giving him an odd, pensive look. 

Freddy shakes it off, as he notices a few of the jurors eyeing him suspiciously, and another--some old bag with a perm so thin you could see her scalp under it, her lips pursed and her whole body held still and tense like she might blow away in the wind--staring at the picture of him and that stupid fucking guy whose name he doesn’t even fucking know from last goddman shitty fucking April. He tries to shake that off too, but can feel the eyes of Holdaway and a few others from his squad on him from where they’re sitting, in the third row behind the prosecutor. Freddy sits in the back of the room to watch the rest, and makes a point not to look at any of them.

##

In the end, it seems to be Mr. Pink--or Steve, as his given name turned out to be, although Freddy finds it hard to think of him as that--that does the most good. His testimony is largely unemotional, rational, and presumably in exchange for testimony from Larry in his own trial. He explains how they saw Mr. Blonde had cut Marvin’s ear off, “Which I just found to be distasteful, just, over the top, if you know I mean,” and how Larry had called him a sick piece of shit and all that. 

“I didn’t think Mr. Orange--uh, Officer Newandyke, that is, was gonna make it, Eddie and Joe were ready to cap him straight off, I wasn’t crazy enough to get in their way. Mr. uh. Dimmick? Is the only thing that slowed them down.”

Later, during the cross examination, the prosector says to Pink, “I know you had already left the warehouse by the time this happened, but you may have gathered that, when police entered the warehouse, Mr. Dimmick threatened to shoot Officer Newandyke. You might have seen the scar on Officer Newandyke’s face, when he was on the stand, where Mr. Dimmick attempted to kill him. If Mr. Dimmick had been trying to protect Officer Newandyke earlier, like you said, why do you think he would do that?”

Larry’s attorney objects, of course, on grounds of speculation, but the judge, who had been listening raptly to Pink’s testimony, overrules. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Pink says, shrugging, “but I think if he’d actually wanted to kill him, he would have killed him. I’m guessing he figured out the guy was a cop, and was worried the police would shoot him on sight. Wouldn’t do that if he had a cop held hostage, though.” 

The jury, for their part, seem much more swayed by this, for some fucking reason, than they were by anything that came out of Freddy’s mouth. Which is fucked up, but at least they seem to forget about whatever strange--and entirely fucking fictional, by the way--sex scandal the prosecture tried to cook up with Freddy.

The jury declares Larry not guilty of the murder charges and the attempt, leaving him with just the armed robbery. That could still get him 9 years, and with all his priors that seemed likely, but the judge, too, seems swayed. That charming son of a bitch, Freddy doesn’t know how he managed it, but the judge gives him just four years, with fucking parole. With good behavior that could end up just 18 months. That the was the justice system at fucking work for you. 

##

Freddy gets a collect call from Larry about a week afterward, but he’s not at home. He thinks about returning the call, but he has too much free time on his hands, still on fucking medical leave (which is probably smart--he can walk just fine, but if he tries to so much as jog his whole right sides feels like he’s being shot all over again, and it’s all he can do not to fall to the ground), so he drives up to the prison during visiting hours instead. 

The visitation room at the prison is different than in the jail--Larry’s not in Supermax, so it’s just a big room like a school cafeteria with a bunch of tables, no windows, no phones. It makes him a little nervous--he knows, logically, that not only does Larry probably not want to kill him (he got as sweet of a deal as possible for a guy like him, as far as sentencing goes, not that Freddy had much to do with that), and that even if he does, there’s a bunch of guards standing against the walls, waiting for any of the inmates to try something.

Maybe that’s why, by the time Larry’s actually sat down across from him, Freddy’s got up the nerve to say, “Four years, must have been your lucky fucking day.” 

Larry smirks, and Freddy relaxes a little.

“I’ve got friends in high places.”

“Higher than me, I hope.”

“Yeah, higher than fucking you. If I’d known you were going to turn my trial into Freddy’s fucking coming out party, I wouldn’t have asked you to come.”

“Yeah, well. Surprise.”

Larry doesn’t really look annoyed, though, he’s got that same pensive look on his face that he had at the trial.

“You didn’t ever tell me…” he says, trailing off.

“That I was a cop?” Freddy says, even though he knows that’s not what Larry means, knows exactly what Larry does mean. Larry noticeably does not laugh, and Freddy shrugs. “It wasn’t exactly sharing and caring time.” 

That’s true enough, between Freddy’s secret identity and Joe’s fucking rules they weren’t supposed to be sharing much at all, but, well. Larry wasn’t the only one who had broken the rules a little bit. It was a long couple months that he was undercover, and it got lonely, not being able to joke around with Holdaway in the bullpen, not seeing anyone at all except for work meetings. So after they got tacos, the week before the heist, when Larry came over to his apartment and one of those godforsaken pictures was taken, they’d talked about a lot of things.

Freddy had decided early on that his undercover identity had to have at least some things the same as him, just so he could keep it all straight, and so he’d told Larry about certain things. About his parents, about his mom dying a few years ago, about how his dad left when he was a kid, what it was like growing up in LA without him.

Which apparently Larry remembered, because he says, “So what, you wanted to tell me about your daddy issues, but not your real daddy issues?” and Freddy laughs, his ugly fucking honk of a laugh.

“You’re a funny guy, Larry.”

“I just mean,” Larry starts, and then he shakes his head. “You know, never mind. It worked out okay. I’ve done time in worse joints than this. You gonna have that scar for the rest of your life?”

Freddy touches his cheek.

“Yeah, looks like it.”

“Sorry about that, kid.”

Freddy wants to ask if Pink was right, if holding the gun on him was a tactical move, but he doesn’t. He knows it wasn’t, knows that doesn’t make sense.

“Not as bad as the ones here,” he says instead, patting his stomach. 

After a moment where neither of them say anything, Freddy says, “I saw you called me. That’s why I came down here.” 

Larry nods.

“Just wanted to make sure you were doing alright, after everything.”

Freddy also wants to ask what that’s about. Are they supposed to be friends now? That seems like the complete fucking opposite of how that’s supposed to work. How fucking lonely must Larry’s life be if he wants to be friends the cop that got him arrested? How fucking lonely does Freddy have to be to be considering it?

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Freddy says, after he realizes he’s paused too long. “I’m fucking peachy.” 

Larry doesn’t look like he necessarily believes that, but he says, gruffly, “Good.”

“I’m sorry about Joe,” Freddy says, because it seems like the right thing to say.

“No you’re not.”

“No,” Freddy says, and he can’t help laughing. “I’m really fucking not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about the law I just read a bunch of court transcripts online and took a fucking stab at it, so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Freddy** :

After the trial, Freddy leaves the force. 

He really thought he was going to be fired, for a while, for the whole trial debacle maybe, but definitely for having killed that woman. When he gets back to the station, after medical leave, the guys don’t treat him too much differently, except now, dudes who used to say things like, “You throw like a fucking girl, Garcia,” and would call Dave, the one guy on the force who cared a little bit about what he looked like and gelled his hair every morning, but was definitely straight as a fucking arrow, a faggot, are quiet as hell around Freddy now. They still make small talk with him, are still friendly with him, it really just seems like they feel bad about it. Which would be fine and all, except Freddy fucking killed someone. Freddy killed an innocent woman, a bystander making use of her right to own a gun and not have her fucking car stolen from her. How is this not the thing about him that everyone’s obviously thinking about?

So that’s why he leaves the force. He’s having a hard time these days telling if he’s a good guy or a bad guy, and his former colleagues, supposed paragons of virtue, weren’t helping. 

  
  


He does keep renting the apartment he was using undercover. Everyone who might want to find him there is either dead or behind bars. Holdaway, unsurprisingly, tells him not to.

Well, what he says is, “That shit’s gonna be a nightmare for your therapist.”

Even after Freddy leaves, they have lunch at the diner every Wednesday. They’ve been friends for the last six years, and not just because they had their fucking desks next to each other as rookies.

“What therapist?” Freddy says, and Holdaway shakes his head.

“Man, are you serious? When you end up killing yourself out here, don’t say it didn’t warn you.”

Freddy’s fine, though. Freddy’s doing fine, he’s thinking about everything, and compartmentalizing, and getting used to thinking about getting shot every time he looks at his own face in the mirror. The scar makes him look hard, makes him look tough, so maybe it’s really a blessing in disguise. 

He eventually stops wondering so much why Larry didn’t just kill him, despite having thoroughly convinced himself that the him getting grazed by that bullet was on purpose--it had to be, because only moments before the barrel had been lined up for a real fucking headshot.

He chalks it all up to crazy shit that happens when you’ve got fear and pain and raw fucking adrenaline making a mess of your brain. He gets it. He’s fine with it.

Leaving the force definitely takes its toll on him, though. Ever since he was a little kid reading Batman comics, he’d wanted to be a detective. And he wouldn’t say he was almost there, but the Cabot case wasn’t as much of a setback as he’d thought it would be those weeks on leave, and actually might’ve been a boost. They did stop Cabot, after all. If Freddy had buckled down over the next five years or so, he’d probably have made it, detective by the time he turned 32. He’d always felt a little pride when someone called him Officer Newandyke, but Detective Newandyke...that was the dream.

In the months after he quits, Freddy goes over and over the box of notes he kept during the case, stewing about it, wondering what the fuck he’s possibly going to do next. He’s got a pretty decent severance package from the LAPD, but it’s not gonna last him forever, and he can’t really see himself doing anything else. It’s not until he remembers one night, poring through those notes for the umpteenth time, looking for god knows what, how Holdaway used to make fun of him for the sheer amount of notes he kept, how detailed they were, taking a new stack of notes from Freddy and saying, “Great, it’s storytime,” that Freddy has the idea.

  
  
  
  
  


**Larry** :

  
  


Over the years, Larry has done his share of time. Wisconsin, Georgia, Nevada, California...his rap sheet is as long as he is old, and there’s only two kinds of people that have a rap sheet like that. 

First, there’s real psychopaths. People who stir up trouble because they like trouble, like being in the middle of it. 

Then there’s people like him, people who commit crimes as an occupation. Drug dealers, chop shops, so on.

Organised crime always brings in a good helping of both. Larry’s dealt with his share of real sickos, guys like Mr. Blonde who’ll hurt you just for the fun of it.

But the point is, Larry’s a)done a lot of time, and b)has a good head on his shoulders, which means he’s the king of good behavior. Get a job sewing pants that pays you cents an hour, mind your own business, make friendly chat with a few of the guards, and you’re out in half the time. He has his first parole hearing after a year, and is out in 18 months. Not his worst stint by a long shot. 

The night Larry gets out of prison, he’s at a bar in north Los Angeles, trying to take it easy. He’d been worried that, after word got around that he’d killed Joe, he’d be a pariah at best, and have a target on his head at worst. But it seems that between the time that’s passed, and the fact that Joe had as many--or more--enemies as he did friends, he seems to be okay. 

So he’s at a bar near the same motel he’d been staying in before the job, catching up with some old buddies he robbed a bank with in North Hollywood back in ‘75, when who should walk in the bar but officer of law Freddy fucking Newandyke. He can’t go one goddamn night without this kid messing with him.

He hasn’t seen Freddy since he visited him in prison right after the trial, but he looks much the same. He’s wearing a blue plaid shirt with the bottom-most buttons undone, and a pair of blue jeans. He orders the drink at the bar, but he doesn’t go anywhere once he’s got it, and even after he’s been there a few minutes, no one comes up to him.

So Larry tells his buddies he’ll see them around, and makes his way over. He doesn’t know what it is about this kid--he’d been furious when Freddy told him he was a cop, of course, in fact furious couldn’t even begin to cover it; the anger, the betrayal, the grief that he had killed one of his oldest business partners over this lie--but afterward, something made him unable to hold it against the kid. Maybe it was the way that he didn’t have the same self-satisfied aire most cops Larry met had. He seemed to take his job seriously, but not himself. That’s what struck Larry when Freddy had come to talk to him before the trial. No doubt some of Freddy’s colleagues thought him a hero, but clearly Freddy himself didn’t think so. “ _I’m a cockroach,”_ he’d said that day, and Larry understood it was a metaphor, but it wasn’t exactly a flattering one. And then at the trial...well. It was hard not to feel a little solidarity with the kid. 

So despite some of his smarter instincts, he makes his way to the bar and takes the stool next to Freddy as he asks the bartender for another drink. 

Freddy doesn’t seem to notice him until he says, “Following me, kid? I thought we were past that.”

Freddy starts and at looks at him.

“Larry,” he says, and Larry can’t read his face one bit. 

“In the flesh.”

Freddy laughs and shakes his head. The way his eyes are heavily lidded, it’s hard to tell if something rattles him. Larry’s halfway through thinking, _That must’ve been what Long Beach Mike was talking about,_ when he remembers that Long Beach Mike said that because he was setting them up.

“You got me good, kid,” he says, and Freddy just keeps looking at him. “What, you don’t think I can respect an officer who can catch ole Mr. White?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well you’ve pegged me all wrong.”

“You must have a lot of cop friends, then.” 

Larry laughs. 

“You’re one of a kind, kid, I promise.”

Freddy gives him such a cold fish look that Larry has to laugh again.

“I’m a footnote your resume,” Freddy says, but he’s starting to smile a little bit, and that’s better, Larry didn’t remember this guy being such a fucking bummer as Mr. Orange. “Also, I’m twenty-fucking-eight.”

“Oh, my mistake, old-timer. You’re almost a senior citizen.”

“Yeah, okay, laugh it up, old man.”

They both sip at their drinks, Larry a gin and tonic, Freddy a what looks like a screwdriver. 

“So what now?” Freddy says.

“I’m sorry, are you bored?”

“No, I mean. What are you going to do now, that you’re out?”

“Yeah, nice try. I just got out, you’re already trying to figure out my next move?”

“What?” Freddy says, and he really does look confused. And then he says, “I’m..not on the force anymore. You didn’t know?”

Larry didn’t know, he assumed the kid would’ve got a promotion after what happened, hell, maybe even a commendation from the Mayor. Maybe the LAPD had gotten more up in arms about the woman in the car that Larry had guessed, although that seemed uncharacteristic.

“Fired?” he asks.

“Quit.”

Larry takes a moment to mull that one over. Freddy doesn’t offer any more information on his own, and Larry thinks about prying, but decides against it. 

“So what are you doing now?”

Freddy’s giving him that confused look again, except now it's more cautious, like he thinks Larry’s playing some kind of practical joke on him. It seemed like the obvious question, to Larry.

“You really don’t know?”

“What? I miss some newsletter everyone else is getting?”

“No, I just--” Freddy starts, and then stops himself, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. I’m not doing much these days, just sitting around on my ass most the time.” He takes a cocktail napkin from behind the bar and a pen from his shirt pocket, and scribbles something down. 

“You should check out this book next time you get a chance.”

The kid’s giving him reading recommendations now? He really must be bored. Larry doesn’t really look at the napkin before he stuffs it in his pocket. 

“Yeah, sure.”

They’re both done with their drinks, so Larry orders them two more, and they shoot the shit for a while. Larry tells some stories about the guys in the pen, and at first Freddy seems uncomfortable, but eventually he opens up, and is laughing along at all the right parts. It’s just like the last weeks before the job, when they’d go back to Freddy’s apartment, or to some bar, and continue conversations they’d started in the long hours spent staking out the store. 

Freddy’s talking about some tweaker he ran into in Hollywood that couldn’t have been more that 15, and Larry says, “North Hollywood?” because he knows that area well.

“West.”

After Freddy says it he looks a little abashed. It’s not like Larry forgot, for even a second, what happened during the trial, but he hasn’t really known how to bring it up.

“West Hollywood, you hang out there a lot?” Larry jokes, and Freddy’s ears go from pink to red. 

“I didn’t mean--” he says, but Larry waves him off.

“I’ve done my share of hanging out around there,” he says pointedly, and Freddy snickers.

“That so?” he says, looking like he’s not quite buying it, but when Larry winks at him, he smiles. “Thank god you didn’t bring that up in the trial.”

“That was a tough situation, kid,” he says, and as Freddy starts laughing, Larry starts laughing too.

“The whole time I was up there,” Freddy says, and Larry can barely understand him, he’s laughing so hard, a real nasally fucking laugh that’s a comedy routine itself, “I was like, is he really trying to say I fucked Mr. White? Jesus Christ, come on.”

Freddy goes to wipe a tear from his eye and he settles down, and Larry realizes this whole time he’s only really gotten a good look at the left side of his face. 

“Turn your head, kid,” Larry says, and Freddy stops laughing. His hand flies up to the scar under his eye. He hesitates, but spins his stool to face Larry completely, and tilts his head to the side. 

The scar’s definitely faded after the last time Larry saw it. That had been right after it happened of course, and it was still raw and pink, even at the trial, when the stitches had already been taken out. Now it’s a thick, white rope cutting into Freddy’s cheekbone. Larry whistles, and reaches out to touch it with his thumb. Freddy flinches when he makes contact, but doesn’t pull away. 

Larry’s sort of cupping the side of Freddy’s face, just touching that scar, and Freddy’s eyes darken. And it’s not that he was waiting for that, but he might’ve been keeping an eye for it. He lowers his voice.

“You’re not trying to fuck Mr. White?” he says.

Freddy mutters “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

He pulls away and squints at Larry a little bit, like he’s trying to size him up.

“Don’t you got a place around here somewhere?” Larry says, remembering that dumpy apartment Freddy had lived in with the magazines and comic books scattered all over.

“Yeah,” Freddy says, not looking at Larry anymore, staring off somewhere behind the bar and downing the last of his drink in a long gulp. He runs his tongue over his top teeth, and then turns toward Larry, still not exactly meeting his eyes. “Larry, do you want to come back to my apartment?”

He looks up at Larry just at the end, and it’s not like he’s totally “on,” he’s clearly a little drunk, and didn’t expect the evening to take this turn, but Larry sees a hint of the game he must be pulling on these West Hollywood, mid-life crisis motherfuckers.

“Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

  
  


Freddy’s apartment is the same one Larry remembered from before, and just as messy, he can tell even though Freddy doesn’t turn off the lights. 

Freddy pauses in the middle of his kitchen, dropping his house keys in a plate of loose change on his table. Larry just waits for him to sort himself out, and follows him back to the bedroom when he does. 

The curtain is open in the bedroom, so everything’s illuminated by the red neon sign for a 24-hour access block of storage units across the street. Larry didn’t see this room when he was here before, and is surprised to see it’s cleaner than the rest of the place. A few books are stacked on the nightstand, and the bed features a plain headboard and comforter, but is made neatly enough. There’s a long dresser with a mirror against the wall across from the window, cleared off except for an alarm clock and dusty jar of hair cream. Freddy’s leaning against the dresser, looking at Larry like he doesn’t know what to do next.

“This how you play it with all your silver foxes?” 

Freddy hops up to sit on the dresser, legs spread and boots dangling above the floor.

“Okay I just want to say I think the number of older guys I’ve fucked has been greatly fucking exaggerated, okay, for all you know, there’s just the one other guy.”

“Yeah, well not knowing his fucking name kinda gave you away.” 

“Bad manners on my part, but that doesn’t mean I’m just--oh.” 

He stops talking as Larry moves to stand in between his legs, pinning him to the dresser with a hand on either side of his hips. 

Larry leans in until his mouth is hovering right under Freddy’s ear and he can smell Freddy’s sweat and it stokes the fire in him. He says, “I think you’re gonna remember my fucking name after this.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Freddy** :

When Freddy wakes up in the morning, Larry’s gone. Not that he’d expected any different, it’s just the thing he notices first. The next two things he notices are that his mouth tastes disgusting and that his dick is hard. He closes his eyes and slips luxuriously into his memories of last night.

  
Freddy maintains that his affinity for older dudes has been much overstated, but if he were to have that affinity, it would be because older dudes know what the fuck they’re doing, and Larry was no exception in that regard.

  
He was a fucking exception in general, that’s for sure. Freddy’s not sure he’s ever been fucked that good in his entire life. 

  
After Larry pinned him to the dresser, Freddy lost the thread of what exactly happened and in what order, but he can recall it in hot, red flashes. Freddy bent over the dresser while Larry fucks him so hard they knock everything to the floor. Freddy on his knees with Larry’s cock so far down his throat he can still feel it now when he swallows, until Larry pulls him up and pins him against the wall. Larry sitting back against the headboard with Freddy straddling him, sinking down onto his dick.

  
Most memorable, perhaps, is when Larry found the revolver Freddy keeps in his nightstand next to his condoms, and held it against Freddy’s cheek as he fucked Freddy from behind, against the wall.

  
The gun was empty, and the both knew it--Freddy because it was his fucking gun, and Larry because he’d checked, Freddy had heard him spin the chamber to make sure. But Freddy still flinched the first time Larry pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked in his ear. He flinched, but his dick also twitched where it was bumping against the wall on every few thrusts, and Freddy moaned. Larry dragged the barrel down Freddy’s chest, until it was lines up with one of the scars on his stomach, and pulled the trigger again. That time when the gun clicked, Freddy came immediately.

  
Yeah, there’s probably all kinds of shit to unpack there, but that’s another problem for Freddy’s hypothetical fucking therapist to fix, and in the meantime he’s enjoying the memory.

  
Even as Freddy strokes himself thinking about it, he’s a little resentful.  
As if Larry hadn’t fucked up enough about it life, he had to go and fuck like he did for a fucking living, and make every sexual experience Freddy has ever had pale in comparison. And after Larry reads the book, Freddy can’t imagine it will ever happen again.

 **Larry** :

Larry hasn’t been inside a Barnes & Noble since he went to New York in the ‘70s. He knows they’re different now, bigger, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to find this book when Freddy didn’t even write down the author’s name.

  
Originally he wasn’t that concerned with getting to the book, but as he left Freddy’s apartment in the early hours, feeling restless, he put his hands in his pockets and found the napkin. He unfolded the napkin to see in Freddy’s neat, blocky handwriting, just a title: _Reservoir Dogs_.

  
Larry can’t make heads or tails of that title as he has an early breakfast at a 24 hour diner a few blocks from the bookstore, the nearest one he could find. He puts the napkin and lets his mind drift while he waits for a refill on his coffee.

  
Usually Larry has better manners than to leave without a word, before breakfast, but he wasn’t sure the kid would want him to stick around. Maybe he’ll go by later, claim he left something there, and try to get a read on if this was a one time thing, or something the kid would like to do again. Normally Larry doesn’t mind a one night stand, sometimes it seems better to leave one magical night alone, no need to ruin it with a second. But this time the thought of it makes him feel old, tired. He’d been thinking of hanging around LA for a while, and despite all sense, he likes Freddy. It’d be nice to see him again.

  
That’s why he’s bothering to get the book, at all, really. Something he can talk about with Freddy later, assuming there’s an opportunity.

  
Larry enjoys a good read--you can’t get through prison without developing some kind of hobby to pass the time, and reading tends to keep you out of trouble--and actually has a sizable collection he’ll have to have shipped out from Wisconsin if he decides to stay in LA long enough.

But Freddy, as much as Larry likes him, doesn’t seem to have great taste in literature, if the comic books he has lying around and pinned up on the walls are any indication. But what the hell, Larry can give this book a try.

  
Larry heads to the bookstore right as it opens, the napkin smoothed out in his hands, ready for him to ask the girl at the counter if she’s heard of it. But he doesn’t have to ask her if she’s heard of it.

  
In the middle of the store, there’s a big, round display, the book’s all over it, with big, bold, letters on the cover: Reservoir Dogs: My Time as an Undercover Officer for the LAPD, by Freddy Newandyke.

 **Freddy** :

The longer Freddy sits around in his kitchen, drinking the milk left over from his bowl of Fruit Loops, leafing half-heartedly through a sports magazine, the more he thinks it was a mistake to tell Larry about the book at all.

  
Larry was an old guy, and had been in prison for the last year and half, and probably wasn’t all that caught up on pop lit. And who was going to tell him? His old buddies, if they even knew the book existed, but wouldn’t they assume he knew about it? Besides, in another six months the popularity of it will surely have blown over, and maybe Larry never had to know about it.

  
Freddy hadn’t asked where Larry was staying either, so he had no way to get in touch with him, to apologize.

  
It wasn’t like Freddy had written anything bad about Larry in the book. The only criminal activities he wrote about were ones already in the public record, and with the trial being over, he didn’t feel like it had to be a secret that Larry had been his favorite of the group. That’s more what Freddy’s worried about, really, had worried about the whole time he was waiting for the book to actually be released by the publisher: that the book is too revealing of himself.

  
It seems a little silly to worry about, after he and Larry already fucked, but he can’t help worry that there’s some little detail he included, something about when they went to get tacos, or when he sat next to Larry at breakfast the day of the heist, that makes him look like a total fucking weirdo burning some kind of fucking torch. Which is not the fucking case. Before running into Larry last night, Freddy hadn’t thought about him in, well.  
Okay, he thought about him all the time, but that was the book’s fault. How was he supposed to forget about it when that’s what he’s making a living off of? But he hadn’t thought about Larry in a real way for a while, and didn’t really think they’d ever see each other again. Well, now he’s not sure they’ll ever see each other again, either.

**Larry** :

  
There’s a sign next to a stack of the books that says “Signed by the author,” and Larry opens up the one on top to see a scribble that looks vaguely like and F and an N, presumably in Freddy’s writing, but could just as well be his agent’s, or publisher’s, or some kid sitting in the back of this store’s.

Larry grabs one from a different side, unsigned, hardcover, and opens the back cover to see a picture of Freddy on this inside of the jacket above an “about the author” blurb. It looks like a candid photo, but he’s got his face turned to the side, so Larry can’t see if the scar’s there to tell when it’s from. He’s smiling, and his hair is falling into his face. His nose looks especially big from the side angle.  
Larry snaps the book closed without reading anything on the back, and takes it up to the counter.

  
“Oh, you’re going to love this one,” the check-out girl says as she rings him up.

  
“Yeah?”

  
“Oh yeah, it’s so interesting, he really gets in there with these criminals, it’s just crazy.”  
“I bet.”

  
Once he’s got the book, he puts off opening it up, dreading as much as he is anticipating finding out what Freddy had to say about him, about all of them.

  
Larry finds a motel to stay at--not the one he was staying in before the job, but nearby--and gets settled into his room. Takes a shower, only to remember he doesn’t have any other clothes to change into. His belongings had been sitting, packed in his suitcase, at in his old motel room, before they went to breakfast, the whole gang. He has no clue what happened to it, but he’s sure it was either tossed, or somebody took it home, and it’s gone now. It’s too bad, he really liked one of the shirts he had in there, and doesn’t really want to walk around wearing this suit anymore.

  
So he heads back out to buy something else, and tries not to think about the book lying in a back on his bed.

  
He manages to put it more or less out of his head until that evening, after he’s had dinner at a greasy spoon that’s sure to leave him with a heartburn later, and finally makes his way back to his hotel room.

  
Once he’s in the room, the book is unavoidable, so he sits on the bed, fully dressed, leaning against the headboard, and pulls the book out of its plastic bag. He stares at Freddy’s name on the cover for a moment, running his hand across the raised letters, and then opens to the preface, and begins to read.

  
He reads late into the night, in the pool of yellow light cast by the lamp mounted on the wall by his bed, and when he’s done he puts the book down, and goes straight to bed. He stares at the ceiling, pondering it for a few minutes before he falls asleep, and he wakes up in the morning still thinking about it.

  
There’s so much in Freddy’s writing that has obviously made this book a hit. The stark character’s he draws--the practical but excitable Mr Pink, Joe, cool and hot tempered by turns, the insidiously affable Mr. Blonde (the passage about Mr. Blonde cutting off Marvin Nash’s ear, Freddy unable to see as he played dead, but able to hear Marvin’s cries and the radio playing, unsettlingly upbeat, in the background, haunts Larry after he reads it. He can only imagine what other horrors Mr. Blonde would have caused over the course of the afternoon had Freddy not killed him). Then there’s Larry himself, of course, portrayed as a charming, if morally bankrupt, anti-hero. A guardian angel, almost, in Freddy’s eyes.

  
Besides that, there’s also Freddy’s attention to the smallest details, his perfect recollection and humorous retelling of their conversations over breakfast, which open the book. And of course, the balls of fucking steel he must have had to go undercover on that job at all that must have his readers fascinated.

  
But none of that is what sticks in Larry’s head the most. The thing he can’t get past is that Freddy doesn’t seem, for one moment, to think of himself as a hero. Most cops Larry’s met are just itching to make themselves into a martyr or a champion, but Freddy does neither. Instead he talks honestly about how much getting shot terrified him, about snapping at Marvin Nash when he wouldn’t calm down, about having had to talk himself up before each meeting he went to with Joe and all the guys. The humility of it, his obliviousness to what an extraordinary story he really has, must have America absolutely charmed with him. Larry gets it.

  
For the rest of the day, Larry keeps himself busy making more social calls, arranging for some of his things to be shipped to LA, but that evening he looks Freddy up in the phone book, and calls him on the phone in his motel room.  
The phone rings several times before Freddy picks it up.

  
“Newandyke,” he says, and it sounds like he’s chewing on something.

  
“Hey kid, it’s Larry.” Freddy’s quiet on the other end, and so Larry continues. “We should talk.”

  
“Seems like we’re talking,” Freddy says, his voice unreadable.

  
“I don’t mean this telephone shit. How about I come by your place tomorrow around breakfast?”

Freddy’s quiet again, and Larry thinks he can hear him taking a deep breath.

  
“Yeah, sure. Just don’t expect me to cook for you.”

  
“Alright, I won’t. See you tomorrow.”

  
##

  
The next morning, over coffee, they make a lot of small talk, but Freddy seems withdrawn. It becomes clear that Freddy’s not going to bring it up himself, so Larry pulls the book out of the bag he’d carried over, and puts it on the table.

  
“This is quite a thing,” he says.

  
“I’m sorry,” Freddy says, right out of the gate, like he’s had it on the tip of his tongue, ready.

  
“For what?” Larry says, and that seems to put Freddy at a loss for words.

  
“I didn’t ask you if I could publish a fucking book about you, I don’t know,” he says after a moment, and Larry hmms.

  
“You portrayed me in a real sympathetic light, I’m not sure why I’d be upset.”

  
“Yeah, well, just, if you thought it was a little weird or anything. I’m sorry.”

  
Larry opens the book to a random page, and reads a line to himself.

  
“Actually,” he says, “I was wondering if you could sign mine.”

  
Freddy laughs, just a little hysterically.

  
“You want me to sign it? You didn’t want one of the pre-signed copies in the store?”

  
“Nah, I want to see what you come up with for me.”

  
“You know I really don’t think you’re thinking through this all the way. When you see me on the news talking to Tom fucking Brokaw about this book you’re gonna regret it, you’re gonna wish you didn’t know who the fuck I was.”

  
“It’d be weird if you wrote a book about me and I didn’t know who you were.”

  
“Ha ha.”

  
“Seriously, are you doing an interview with Tom fucking Brokaw?”

  
“No, of course not. Oprah, on the other hand, could call any day now.”

  
“You’re right, I am starting to regret this.”

  
Freddy takes the book from Larry’s hand and grabs one of the loose pens rolling across the table. He opens the front page and scribbles for longer than seems like just a signature.

  
“There you go,” he says, handing the book back, closed, and it seems rude to open it up and read what he wrote in front of him, so Larry just takes the book, and stands up to leave.

  
“I better be going, I’m meeting with someone at ten.”

  
“Who?” Freddy asks, and Larry’s not sure if the careful casualness in his voice is masking wariness or a little jealousy.

  
“Just an old friend I haven’t caught up with in a while,” he says. “Don’t worry, no funny business.” By funny business he means anything illegal, but if Freddy’s a little jealous after all, he can take it to mean something else, too.

  
“Where are you staying?” Freddy asks, as Larry gets to the door. “Just in case, you know…”

  
“That motel just by the Belmont tunnel, I can’t remember what it’s called off the top of my head, but--”

  
“I know the one.”

  
“Okay, well, I’ll see you later, kid. Take care of yourself.”

  
“Yeah, you too.”

Once Larry’s on the street outside, in the sunshine, he opens up the book as he walks, to read the message left on the title page in Freddy’s neat hand:

_Larry,_  
_Sometimes I don’t know if you’ve saved my life, or if you messed it up in a major way, but either way...LA’s nice this time of year. Hope I see you around._  
_XO_  
_Freddy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really the end of the story. The next chapter is some bits of Freddy's book that I wrote up, but ended up not including in this chapter. If you enjoyed reading, please feel free to chat with me at thenewgothicromance on tumblr!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just a few clips of Freddy's book I wrote up that I didn't end up including in Chapter 4.

From the preface:

_The reason I can write this book today, is that everyone in it except me is either dead or in prison. And the guys in prison won’t kill me for having written it when they get out. I think._

From p. 95:

_The officers I worked with thought I didn’t hear them whispering behind my back about how I must’ve been out of my goddamn mind to get into undercover work, especially for this job in particular. I’d done minor operations before, where I was undercover for a couple days, or one day, or sometimes just an afternoon. The Joe Cabot mission was something else altogether; a two-month long, method-acting monstrosity, in which I was going to have to live, sleep, and breath my cover identity, Tommy Wright, or as he would become known to his criminal compatriots, Mr. Orange._

From p. 106

_Tommy Wright was different from me in several ways. He was a drug dealer, for one, and had helped commit a bank robbery. He was married, or so the wedding ring he wore seemed to suggest, to a woman. If you followed along with the trials of this case as they made it to the public eye, you’ll know that’s been made extremely, legally, clear that the real me, Freddy Newandyke, is not interested in women._

_But Tommy Wright never exactly existed. Almost as soon as I went undercover, Joe Cabot, and his son, Eddie, and their associate, whom I would only know for a long time as Mr. White, gave me the alias Mr. Orange. And Mr. Orange became a character that was sort of me and Tommy Wright put together--a character that I could believe I was, at least enough of the time to convince these other guys it was who I was._

From p. 234 (the last page)

_A lot of people say you see your life flash before your eyes when you die. That’s not what I saw. Maybe that’s because I didn’t die after all, but I got close enough to think it would have had to start, if we’re fitting my whole life in. I didn’t see anything but a lot of blood, and a lot of people who had died because of me._

_Something I didn’t share in the trial, because I was embarrassed to admit it, and it didn’t seem relevant at the time, was that Larry Dimmick did, as was suspected, know I was a cop, in the moments before he put a gun to my head. He knew, not because his oldest associate told him so, or because it seemed obvious. No, he believed in me until I told him myself, both of us bleeding out from gunshot wounds, as I could hear the other LAPD officers approaching. He was about to find out, one way or another, and as he held my face in his hands and told me we were going to be okay, that we were going to do a little time, but we would be okay, I couldn’t bring myself to let him find out when he got handcuffed and I didn’t. With both of us seeming on the verge of death, it didn’t seem right to end it like that. So I told Larry I was a cop, and though he didn’t have much time before the LAPD burst through the warehouse door, he had enough time to kill me, and make it look like one of the others had done it, too. I have no doubt that that’s what any of the other men on that team would have done._

_But instead Larry chose life; he chose my life, he chose his. And in doing so, he left a mark on me that I will carry for the rest of my life, deeper than any scar._


End file.
